


The Pikeman

by Metallic_Sweet



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Memories, Dimitri Week 2019, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medieval Defense Formations, Mental Health Issues, Post-War, Pre-Canon, renewing friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21821839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metallic_Sweet/pseuds/Metallic_Sweet
Summary: Two years after the end of the war, the Margrave Gautier falls in a skirmish against Sreng. Sylvain and Dimitri finally reconnect.(For Dimitri Week 2019, Day 1: Savior King, King of Revenge)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 145





	The Pikeman

**i.** _to my friends who waited / and I never came home_

When Sylvain was seven and Dimitri was four:

The plague was at its heights again, and it was the anniversary of the queen’s death. Dimitri along with Lambert had headed north from Fhirdiad, partially on an introductory tour for Dimitri of Kingdom domain, mostly because Lambert did not want to think of his wife’s death. They spent a week in House Fraldarius, Lambert taking comfort in Rodrigue’s company and Dimitri and Felix toddling along after Glenn. Count Galatea joined them for a couple of nights, so Ingrid joined Dimitri and Felix to demand stories and that her father show them his magic to make fairy lights. 

Lambert and Dimitri departed north alone to stay another week in House Gautier. The yearly Sreng defense was on the horizon, and Lambert and the Margrave spent most of the day and nights thrown into the work. Sylvain minded Dimitri, who was so very curious about the barricades in the fields where cattle still roamed among the chaos.

“What’s that?” he cried every time they came upon a new piece in the defense formations or barricade foundations. 

“That’s a pike,” Sylvain said, holding Dimitri’s hand so he wouldn’t run off into the snow. “It’s an anti-cavalry weapon.”

“And that?” Dimitri asked, pointing a bit lower to the barrels at the base of the main hill. 

“That’s oil,” Sylvain said after a moment. “Like in our lamps. Sreng does not use much magic, and they are deterred of fire.” 

“Deterred,” Dimitri echoed, the world strange to him.

“Like, scared,” Sylvain said, uncertain himself of the exact meaning except that it was negative.

“Oh!” Dimitri said, nodding. “I understand now. It is scary to die in fire.”

“Yes,” Sylvain said after a moment; he tightened his hold on Dimitri’s hand. “I’m getting cold, Dimitri. Let’s go play inside for a little bit, okay?” 

“Oh, of course!” Dimitri said, turning from the barricade and beaming up at Sylvain. “I love playing with you!” 

This made Sylvain laugh, and Dimitri laughed, too, because Sylvain had recently lost two teeth at the front of his mouth and he looked funny. 

Dimitri, in the years that followed, would forget this memory. 

Sylvain would later hear from Miklan how, in the wake of the assassination of the royal family, the carriages, horses, and bodies were burned. When the Prince Dimitri was recovered, he was barely recognisable. He was covered in a thick coat of dried blood mixed with ash. 

In the years that followed:

Sylvain never forgot anything. 

**ii.** _thank you for waiting / even though I changed_

Two years after the end of the war, the Margrave Gautier falls in a skirmish against Sreng. The yearly invasion attempt is unsuccessful, but the Margrave’s wound festers. Mercedes, traveling from her latest work with Dedue in Duscur, arrives in time only to ease the Margrave’s pain. 

“There was a mail link fragment deep in the wound,” she says upon exiting the master bedroom. “We could remove it, but the flesh is dead and his liver has failed.” 

Dimitri glances at Sylvain, who is staring out the window. His gaze goes through the herd of wholly cows plodding across the snow-covered field. In their youth, Dimitri rarely traveled to Gautier. It was colder and harsher than Fhirdiad, and the plague had been worse here. He had not been an unhealthy child, but he was Lambert’s only heir. He had only traveled with his father in the summer, and then only spent time in Sylvain’s company as their fathers discussed business. He remembers Miklan only briefly, during House greetings and farewells. 

“I don’t think my father would wish to suffer further,” Sylvain says, not looking away from the cows. 

Mercedes nods. She waits a long moment, but Sylvain doesn’t say anything more. She looks to Dimitri, who realises unsteadily what he must ask. 

He has never been good at this. At grief and good-byes and undeniable truths. But Sylvain is still uncharacteristically silent and removed, staring into a world beyond the cows. 

Dimitri knows that world well. 

“Will,” Dimitri starts, a little rough (beastly, Felix would say), “the Margrave suffer further?” 

“I do not believe he will wake again,” Mercedes says, soft and gentle but firm. “I will make sure he is not in pain.” 

They both look at Sylvain. He does not turn to them, but his gaze is more focused. He nods, short and jerky. 

“Thank you,” he says, voice cracking. 

Mercedes nods. She turns to return to the bedroom. Dimitri waits until she has shut the door again, separating the deathbed from the reception room. He turns back to Sylvain and moves to him. For a long moment, he watches Sylvain observe a calf leaping in a few higher pockets of snow. 

Sylvain swallows. His jaw works. He blinks. Swallows again. 

Dimitri recognises this, too. 

Carefully, he lifts his right hand. Touches his fingers to the slightly curved palm of Sylvain’s left hand. His skin is cold. Clammy. They are not wearing gloves or gauntlets as Sylvain had wanted to hold his father’s hand. Dimitri took his off in deference for the gravity of the situation. 

After a moment, Sylvain closes his hand around Dimitri’s fingers. It’s too tight. No one has Dimitri’s strength, but there are times when there are greater powers than his Crest. 

“Take me from here, Dimitri,” Sylvain says, half-beseeching, half a question. “Call me a coward, if you must –”

“You are not a coward,” Dimitri says, and that is rough, too; he grips Sylvain’s hand back and feels their bones creak. “Come.” 

**iii.** _maybe from now on / we can change together_

Dimitri does not know the layout of House Gautier well, but he does know where Sylvain’s childhood room, the library, and the kitchens are. He does not know if Sylvain is still sleeping in those rooms, and this is not a state in which the House staff should see their young master. 

“The library?” Sylvain asks, wobbly and more than a little baffled. “Dimitri, I don’t want to study.” 

“It is quiet here, isn’t it,” Dimitri says as he pulls Sylvain to one of the chairs. “Sit.” 

“I am not a dog,” Sylvain says, unusually waspish, before he catches himself with a wince. “I –”

Dimitri waves a hand before kneeling down to get the hearth going. He concentrates on striking the flint and then on tending the faint embers. He could, like Sylvain, spark the wood with magic, but there is a meditative quality to going through the motions. He listens to Sylvain shuffling. The scrape of the chair. The slight creak as Sylvain sits down heavily in it. The pop of Sylvain’s bad knee. 

Once the hearth is lit and the fire gradually building to give off pleasant warmth, Dimitri sits on the carpet. Shifts until his legs are tucked under him and his back is to the warmth. His left arm is slightly numb. He has noticed Edelgard’s wound tends to act up in greater cold. 

“Dimitri.” 

He looks up. Sylvain is hunched over, his elbows resting on his thighs and hands between his legs. Dark shadows paint his eyes, and his skin tone is sallow from lack of rest and sleep. Felix, who had finally gone to lie down himself when Mercedes arrived, said that Sylvain insisted on carrying and caring for his father since they cleared the battlefield. 

Like this, with a too bright, sickly light in his eyes:

“Do you still hear them?” Sylvain asks,

He asks even though he clearly wants to stop himself from speaking. The words stumble out in a rush. He is grieving and desperate and afraid.

Dimitri breathes in. Out. 

“I do,” he says because it is true. 

“Even now?” Sylvain asks because he must.

“Yes,” Dimitri says; he pauses a moment, watching how Sylvain’s eyes shine in the firelight. “I hear them always. Even as we speak now.” 

Sylvain blinks. Swallows. He closes his eyes. His hands between his thighs clench. Unclench. 

When they were children, Sylvain was always the strong one. He was older than Dimitri, Ingrid, and Felix and should have been close to Glenn instead. He preferred, though, to keep them company as Glenn was squired early, and Sylvain liked to fool around instead. He tended to pick up cuts and bruises like most children collect pretty stones or fairy tales. Dimitri had just thought he was clumsy, especially because Sylvain loved to flop down onto any flat surface to pretend to sleep. 

They were children. Dimitri does not remember his childhood days too well, but he remembers this well. 

Slowly, he shifts. 

Lying in the slums, Dimitri slept beneath a stolen tent tarp. He took money and clothes from the dead, and he slew Imperial soldiers as they slumbered by the campfire. He learned to crawl in the filth much as he had learned to stumble over the corpses of his family. 

“Sylvain.” 

Sylvain looks at him. If this were any other time, their positions would be reversed. In his clouded childhood days, Dimitri knows Sylvain always rushed to wipe Felix’s tears and reassure Dimitri and Ingrid’s uncertainties and fears. During the war, Sylvain always knew how to bring light to even the darkest conversations. Since then, he has been a steady, dependable presence, traveling back and forth from Gautier to Fhirdiad. Often Dimitri has not known what he needs until after Sylvain has taken care of it. 

With all the delicacy Dimitri possesses, he takes Sylvain’s hands.

“There is no life in the dead,” he says, and Sylvain’s pupils widen and contract. “The voices I hear are only memories and in my own head.” 

Sylvain gazes at him. Searching. No less desperate but focused. 

Dimitri breathes in. 

“Are you afraid,” he asks, “you will hear your father? 

A stillness. Not quite a pause. 

Sylvain breathes out. Blinks. 

His eyes shine.

“No,” he whispers, small and broken, “but I am afraid that you will.” 

Dimitri breathes out. 

It is a valid worry. Dimitri hears the calls of those who die in his service. Who died in his stead. The Margrave’s death is due to defending the United Fódlan founded in Dimitri and Byleth’s joint dream. Dimitri will know his voice if it ever joins the chorus in his ears. 

The Margrave did not mince words. He could be cruel. Sylvain knows this well. He has defended Dimitri even in his madness. He always tried to protect Dimitri in those faded childhood days. 

“Sylvain,” Dimitri whispers as Sylvain dips.

He rises on his knees to let Sylvain hug him. Releases Sylvain’s hands so they may wrap their arms around each other. Dimitri tucks his chin on Sylvain’s right shoulder. Lets Sylvain hide his face against his neck. 

They stay like this for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to connect with me on [Twitter @Metallic_Sweet](https://twitter.com/Metallic_Sweet)!


End file.
